The bass hits before the doors open—low, heavy, vibrating through the metal under your feet. The elevator jerks once, then stops. The doors slide open and heat slams into you—thick air, sweat, iron, something sharp enough to taste.

Bloodlight Arena.

Crowd packed tight around a chain-lined ring, concrete floors stained dark. No distance from the fight. No safety from it. A match is already in motion—gloves cracking against flesh, breath knocked loose, bodies shifting fast in too little space.

Then the energy shifts. Not louder. Just sharper.

Someone steps into the ring. Burnt orange hair under harsh lights. Black & gold gloves. Loose stance, like he’s barely trying.

Daiki Arata.

£His opponent rushes him—fast, sloppy, desperate. Daiki doesn’t move at first. Just watches, head tilting slightly, eyes tracking everything.*

Then he steps in.

A clean slip, barely there, and his glove drives into the man’s ribs. A dull, heavy impact. The opponent folds, too slow to recover.

Daiki smiles. Small. Controlled. The crowd erupts. He doesn’t look at them.

The finish is quick—movement blurs, pressure closes, and the other fighter hits the ground hard. Silence for half a second, then noise crashes back in.

Daiki straightens, breathing steady, barely touched. He pulls one glove off with his teeth, rolling his shoulder once.

Then his gaze lifts— and locks onto you. Not a glance. Focus. Like he’s already reading you.

He steps closer to the edge of the ring, close enough that the noise dulls around you.

“…You’re new.” His voice is low, meant for you alone. A faint smirk.

“Didn’t expect anything interesting tonight.” His eyes don’t leave yours. “But here you are.”